


to be soft

by Jenwryn



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Basically epilogue compliant, F/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've kissed before, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to be soft

**Author's Note:**

> Typing in the dark is kind of bad for your eyes, kids. fyi.

Sunlight through the window. His hands on her legs, his fingers stroking upwards, ankles to knees, brushing against the flow of the hair that's grown back there; grown back there long enough to be soft, now, to be soft again. Here's the heat of his breath against her skin, steady with concentration but warming, eager. There's the stroke of his thumb, at her knee, slipping behind to touch a sweet spot she hadn't even known she had. Touch and reaction, reaction and touch. Gasp, and she looks at him: there's hair in his eyes, and he's smiling. So much sunlight, on the planes of his face: here's the coil of it, kissing against them, as he curves his hands back around, as he slides them up her thighs.

She's never felt so naked, not with the eyes of a million fixed upon her. It makes her brain sting, makes it squeeze against the walls of her skull, makes her lungs come up short in their rationing of air – it's okay, it's okay, it's okay, and she lets her knees fall further apart, the better to fit him as he wriggles upwards and kneels, as he shifts his palms to her shoulders, and kisses her.

They've kissed before, of course.

Not in the sunlight, though, not in _this_ sunlight. Melted butter, it slants through the window and laps at their sheets – pale and warm and right and safe. Fearful. She bites her lip. She remembers that she shouldn't. She returns to his mouth, touches skin to skin, tucks her tongue beneath his upper lip and feels the way his body tenses. No, not a kiss like this, before, not with their own house around them, not with afternoon noises seeping in from beyond: licks and ticks and curls of sound.

There are the licks and ticks and curls of his mouth at hers, too, of course. There's the way he slides his lips sideways, to kiss at the corner of hers. To kiss at her cheek, at her jaw, at her neck, at her ear; tongue against earlobe, sucking it in. She shivers, but it isn't a shiver. It's too warm for a shiver, it starts in her stomach and blossoms outwards, emotion expanding in the breakable flask that is her heart.

“Peeta,” she says, because she supposes she ought to say something. Because the words that are in her cannot come out. Because she's not sure that her limbs alone are enough. She searches for a switch in the back of her mind, tries to let the hitchings of her breath be audible, tries to let him hear the way her heart jolts when he puts his tongue to her breast.

She shouldn't be just sitting here. She should be doing something. She's a creature of action, isn't she. She puts her hands in his hair and clings. Tries not to cling. Tries to remember that she can. Should? Should.

He's talking to her. He's saying her name. He's telling her she's beautiful, beautiful. He's using so many words, so many lovely words, all terrifying, and she holds them in her ears but cannot acknowledge. Cannot respond. Can do nothing, Katniss, but shaky-breathe and grip his arms; nothing, but press her knees against his sides, and wonder how to say she wants him.


End file.
